


let me know

by Batman



Series: jaywalkers [24]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9126037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batman/pseuds/Batman
Summary: Today in ways to start your summer break: jaywalking.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [дай знать](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908064) by [MsFlaffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsFlaffy/pseuds/MsFlaffy)



> (Title from “Sing” by Ed Sheeran, even though it’s difficult to tell, just like it was with the first ever piece.
> 
>  _I need you, darling, come on set the tone_  
>  if you feel you’re falling, won’t you let me know?)
> 
> A man told me, a year and a half ago, “You know, I think it’s your job to give happiness to others.” 
> 
> He was wrong. It’s not my job to give happiness to others; it’s my calling. 
> 
> I started writing this story at 7 AM in a McDonald’s, a year and a half ago. You’ve heard this by now; I’ve joked about it often. What you don’t know is that I started writing it because I was so terribly heartbroken that I thought it was a chore to continue existing. 
> 
> I hope reading this story made it feel less like existing is a chore for you.

**On the Effects of Popular Culture on Contraceptive Methods: Why  
**

_by Iwaizumi Hajime_

I couldn't do it. His condoms were Rilakkuma.

[Editor's note: Happy holidays!]

 

●●●

 

‘I have a haiku, Wakatoshi,’ Koutarou announces as he flops down on Ushijima’s pristine and soft bed and bounces a little on it, ‘about what transpired last night.’

‘No,’ Ushijima says immediately. He doesn’t even bother looking up from his books, of which there are admittedly many, that Koutarou can see. There are three giant ones piled up on his desk that look like they were printed back when people used to, like, cross-stitch paper into existence or whatever it is that they did like a hundred million years ago, Koutarou doesn’t give a shit. Point is, Ushijima seems to be battling those and his “work” laptop which also belongs to roughly the same era of civilisation that the books do and is only good for typing up reports painstakingly.

‘You have to listen to this,’ Koutarou says. ‘I’m the next Minnesota Williams.’

‘Tennessee Williams.’

‘SO INTO IT, MAN,’ Koutarou starts, throwing his hands in the air and addressing the ceiling and probably the next door neighbours, whoever they are. ‘I FELT THE BLOWJOB. I BECAME THE BLOWJOB.’

‘That’s only sixteen syllables,’ Sawamura’s disembodied voice says, and Koutarou takes a moment to locate him— under Ushijima’s desk, sitting cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by paperwork.

‘…unf,’ Koutarou adds as an afterthought. ‘Are we going to the club or what?’

Like, Koutarou's been working at Vertigo for two years now. Literally, when he first started working here he wasn't even sure if he was actually working or just getting paid to mooch off the bartender and hit on Saeko. Two years later, he's kind of...still not sure, actually.

At least Akaashi's as hot as ever.

Not that he's here yet or anything, which is actually doing more good to Koutarou than harm, because some of his favourite evenings are the ones where his shift starts earlier than Akaashi's and he gets to amble around and take a fair share of pictures _and_ vodka before he Akaashi steps in like this walking, talking _everyone else might as well go the fuck home now._ Or at least, everyone can go the fuck home for Koutarou. But not _Koutarou's_ home. It's complicated.

'I don't want to exaggerate,' Oikawa says, 'but I really think that was your fifty-third shot in the past ten minutes.'

'My project has been submitted at the printer's,' Koutarou responds coldly, as he thunks his shot glass down and looks Oikawa in the eye. First of all, Oikawa doesn't get off _anywhere_ giving Koutarou flack for anything when his hair is doing whatever the fuck it's doing under the tiara he's fixed into it. Speaking of which, a fucking _tiara._ Koutarou doesn't want to know where he got it from except that he kind of does because the colour of that main gemstone thing is actually pretty nice, and he's pretty sure he could convince Akaashi to put one on at some point if he begged enough. 'My work here is done, it's summer, and I will literally drink only shots and drink them in large amounts that almost get me fired.'

'You've got whipped cream on your chin, man.'

Now Koutarou, on most days, is a man of great patience. He really is. He puts up with Kenma's fucking hellcat thing three days out of seven, and one time a bird took a crap on his shoulder and he wasn't even that mad about it. He's like, one of those hollow drum things that make really nice sounds if people know how to play them. Spaceships? Space drums? Koutarou's one of them, because he's kind of sonorous and shit but he's actually pretty nice if you _don't fucking test him._ And Oikawa Tooru has been testing him from the beginning of the evening, getting his dinner burger mixed up and then stealing his hair gel— to _what fucking end,_ his hair still looks like someone took a fire extinguisher to a haystack— and now insisting on pointing out everything that is wrong with Koutarou's existence as if people are _perfect._

Well, Akaashi exists, but still.

Koutarou employs the great patience that he is a man of and thinks of tangerines and like, guppies or whatever. What he means to say is that he doesn't have to look at Oikawa's baby pink tiara for any longer than he wants to, so he turns away sagely and looks out at the dance floor instead, where Sawamura and Sugawara are doing that thing of theirs as usual where they're, like, the only ones in the whole wild world. Koutarou would cringe, but seeing them makes him smile. Sawamura's hair has grown out a little, he thinks, but he's still wearing the same outfit as always like he's some cartoon character with only one change of clothes. Sugawara's twirling around in his grip, laughing so happily that Koutarou can almost hear it over the music, and his curls are even more all over the place than Oikawa's, but sometimes, Koutarou's like, _fuck it._

It's been a long fucking year, honestly, and no one plays music quite like Akaashi does but Koutarou's glad they don't, because then it wouldn't make Akaashi _Akaashi._ Whoever's in the cockpit thing right now is doing a damn good job either way, and Koutarou lets the percussion drive under his skin like the fifty three shots he's had. The music is so loud and the lights are so bright, and Koutarou's got his camera; the world is huge and his. His project's at the printer's. It's only ten in the evening. Oikawa's not poledancing yet—

'A screwdriver, please, sweetheart,' he hears, and turns around to throw himself on Kuroo.

'Good evening to you too,' Kuroo laughs, arms going easily around Koutarou as Koutarou tugs on his shirt and closes his eyes. 'I was literally away for five minutes, champ.'

'Shut up,' Koutarou says. 'Oikawa thinks I'm drunk.'

'Oikawa wouldn't be wrong.'

'You think I'm a lightweight? Is that it? You think I'm gonna be down after like, one shot, is that it.'

'Well, you know what they say about—'

'No.'

It's been a long fucking year. Kuroo's trying to drink his screwdriver with his arms still around Koutarou, and Koutarou kind wants to let him know that it's _really_ not working out because the bottom of the glass keeps touching his neck and it's really fucking cold, but honestly, Koutarou kind of wants to drink a _million_ energy drinks and then dance for two weeks straight. He'll wait for Kuroo to be done with the screwdriver but after that he's dragging him out and breaking the pastel lovebirds up; Sugawara and Sawamura can go home if he's not going to _drop it._ Koutarou might actually try to get _Ushijima_ to dance a little.

'Wait,' he says, opening his eyes to the beautiful view of a half-empty glass of beer behind the counter. 'Where's Wakatoshi.'

'I thought he was with you? _Koutarou._ Do _not_ tell me—'

Koutarou straightens up completely then, eyes going wide. He doesn't mean to be an alarmist or anything but the last time they left Ushijima unsupervised at a bar, a supermodel who was on campus to shoot a commercial ended up hitting on him and as if that wasn't bad enough, Ushijima actually _rejected_ her. Koutarou knows Ushijima isn't here for romance in general (despite all the Byron and, like, whoever) but one does not simply _reject supermodels._ Koutarou's a photographer. He _knows_ these things.

'Okay,' he says, gulps. 'Okay, but Iwaizumi's tonight's designated driver. He wouldn't—'

'Iwaizumi is out to _lunch_ this week,' Kuroo hisses. 'Koutarou, you had _one_ job.'

'I know, but I—'

So the thing is, if you put Koutarou in a good enough mood about literally anything, he'll immediately create and nurture the sentiment of wanting to down a million energy drinks and dance for two weeks straight. It doesn't take a lot to get him going. Cute dogs, good music, the smiles of his friends or literally anyone in the fucking world, for that matter. Those are all things that get him going in three seconds flat, zero to a hundred and fifty.

Then there's Akaashi.

Kuroo spots them too, at the same time; the line of his shoulders changes, and Koutarou hears the clink of the screwdriver meeting the counter behind him.

Akaashi and Tsukki are walking in together, and if that isn't one of the best sights Koutarou's ever seen in his entire goddamn life, he doesn't know what is. Tsukki's, like, a kilometre taller but looks ten years younger; T-shirt over jeans, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His hair's grown out too, Koutarou thinks, but then he turns to say something to Akaashi and— well.

There's Akaashi. The kind of white shirt Koutarou remembers seeing him in for the first time, last summer, when he'd walked in hearing about the new DJ but not knowing who the fuck it would end up being. Koutarou remembers seeing him for the first time, and also kind of _doesn't_ remember; he was a little hammered already, with a few dozen pictures on his camera roll, the way he likes best to see Akaashi enter a room. So he crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Akaashi from across the dance floor; his loose white shirt, his tight jeans, his perfect dark curls and the way Koutarou can already almost smell his cologne. Akaashi looks up to answer Tsukki, and Koutarou looks at the way his body moves to do that, angling, turning, moving so goddamn perfectly.

Beside him he knows Kuroo's crossed his arms too, because they're kind of obnoxious like that, twins without being twins and doing the same thing when they know they'll make a picture. Koutarou loves Kuroo, loves dancing with him and drinking with him and despairing with him, even; loves all the years they've had together and all the years they're gonna have.

And Koutarou loves Akaashi. Koutarou loves Akaashi. Koutarou loves the way something goes off in his chest when he sees Akaashi, every time, whether it's in this club where it all started or in his bathroom at seven in the morning, reaching for the toothbrush and humming a _good morning, babe._

Akaashi laughs at something, and nods, and well. Koutarou kind of loves Tsukki too, the bleached-top lanky brat that he is.

Koutarou, actually, loves everyone. Loves Oikawa who hasn't taken to the pole yet, Iwaizumi who's too frazzled to supervise Ushijima, Sawamura and Sugawara and Shimizu and Asahi; Kenma and Hinata and Saeko. Koutarou loves this club, Koutarou loves that café. Everything's kind of loud and bright, and Koutarou loves, because that's what he does best, and he holds his camera because that's how he does it best.

Kuroo's shoulder presses against his, and he turns to look. Kuroo's grinning at him, raising his eyebrows, and motioning towards Akaashi and Tsukki with his head. Koutarou grins back and feels the vodka in his throat, and he thinks, _god fucking damn._

 

●●●

 

All right, so Kei, all things considered, is a human being who takes a lot of things into consideration (as demonstrated just before). Once he understands a concept he applies it thoroughly to all walks of life, all the aspects of everything that makes up the world around him (and more specifically, the campus around him). All the little realities that merge into one big reality, details in the canvas of humanity. What he would like to say is that when he was approximately twelve years old and understood how very _stupid_ people are, he'd taken the realisation to heart and proceeded to paint all his life's vision with it. Kei doesn't _forget_ these things. He still remembers the time Kageyama tied both of Hinata's shoes together by the laces and instead of protesting Hinata just bunny-hopped around their tenth-grade classroom all day. He remembers that time Furihata got so high that he refused to sleep unless someone was holding his hand because he didn't want to be alone in his dreams. Kei remembers _everything_ and uses it to fuel his cold, sardonic rage against three quarters of humanity when he wakes up in the morning.

What Kei doesn't _understand,_ however, is why people don't make the same effort to remember facts. He isn't entirely strict about it either; he doesn't have very high expectations from most of the people around him. It's not like he expects Bokuto remember his favourite colour or something. No, what he asks— the _only_ thing he asks of the people around him— is that they remember the _big_ facts. The established one, like the colour of his hair or the importance of the _Jurassic Park_ franchise, or the _fact that Tsukishima Kei does not dance._

'I really cannot believe this,' he says to an absolutely unimpressed Bokuto and Kindaichi (which, when did they even _meet_ ). 'Bokuto's general life policy is to utterly ignore my needs and wants, but I thought _you_ knew me better than this.'

'It's _summer_ ,' Kindaichi says, which it _is_ to be fair, but which is also a fact that has been repeated by him five times in this conversation alone. Which proves that he's good at remembering facts, just not the _right_ ones.

'It is indeed summer,' Kei replies, slowly, gently. 'And I still don't dance. It isn't a seasonal affair.'

'But it's summer.'

'And I don't _dance._ '

Bokuto narrows his eyes at Kei, then, and Kei stares at him with the straightest face he can muster given the fact that a few of the spikes of Bokuto's hair are topped with what looks like whipped cream (Kei really, really doesn't want to know). Bokuto in his entirety looks the kind of ridiculous that you can only find in a particular frame of time, as Kei has understood: the liminal space between the ending of finals and submissions and the start of the summer holidays. In this liminal stretch of time, Bokuto ascends from the mortal plane and achieves a state of being that has previously only been observed in the _X Files,_ possibly, or the deepest archives of Oikawa's Instagram. (And occasionally his own Snapchat story, with a lot of flower symbols and uncomfortably zoomed-in coverage of Akaashi's lips.)

Bokuto narrows his eyes at Kei, and Kei stares back. In the background, Akaashi puts on a song that Kei's been hearing playing loudly in Bokuto's apartment for a week straight, and that is another thing that Kei really, really doesn't want to know about.

'Fine,' Bokuto declares finally. 'We'll go. You'll dance one day, Tsukki. We all dance under Gecko Tooru.'

'Sure,' Kei says. 'Hurry along, now.'

Vertigo, as usual, is still the place that divides the routine apocalypses of the campus into half along with _Le Petit Something._ Kei, also as usual, has to be the uncomfortable witness to most of these happenings along with Yamaguchi, whose strength in the face of adversity _without_ a drop of alcohol is something that Kei is still in awe and admiration of, and _also_ as usual, he regrets whatever choices he made in life that led him to be sitting dumbstruck on this barstool as Kuroo Tetsurou and Bokuto Koutarou dance on the floor metres away from him.

 _Turn up the love now,_ the new song on the speakers says, and Kei swallows, smiles, swallows down last summer— last summer, last summer— all over again. _Turn up the love now, listen up now, turn up the love._

Actually, Kei thinks that they will always end up here, in the grand scheme of things and the karmic and narrative pattern of the sprawl of the universe's divine carpet. Somewhere, somehow, in every timeline with every choice that Kei could ever have made with his free will, he thinks he would _still_ end up dumbstruck on a barstool as Kuroo Tetsurou and Bokuto Koutarou dance on the floor. Maybe the nuances would change; in this timeline he's lucky enough to have sat (dumbstruck) through the change. For example, the first time he saw this sight, he was mostly morally offended.

Now, it might be a little less of an existential crisis to see Kuroo's hands on Bokuto's hips and the way they keep whispering things to each other that they would be the only ones to find funny even if the rest of the room could hear. (Oh, please, Kei doesn't mean he _likes_ Bokuto; that'll be the day— he just means that it's refreshing to not be so affronted at everything Kuroo does that falls even slightly into the realm of _attractive._ And Kei has _eyes._ Bokuto might have whipped cream in his hair but he knows how to dance.)

'Whipped,' Yamaguchi says, and Kei, for a blessed moment where the reality of how absolutely ruthless and dry his best friend can be the moment he gets a good occasion to throw Kei under the bus hasn't rushed in yet, thinks he's also talking about the cream. Then reality rushes in. 'Wow, Tsukki. I'm gonna take a picture, hold that face.'

'I will literally dye Pin's fur bubblegum pink,' Kei says through gritted teeth, as Bokuto pinches Kuroo's cheek and and raises his bottle in the air, waiting for the bass to drop. For a moment all of them are suspended; Kuroo, Bokuto, Sawamura, Sugawara, Oikawa— is that a _tiara_ — all of them waiting for the song to punch through the air.

It does, and they roar, and Kei feels young all at once, in the best fucking way.

'Whipped,' Yamaguchi says again, and Kei turns to face him this time. Behind him, Hinata is spinning on his barstool, or attempting to do it while Kageyama attempts to stop him. Yamaguchi's ponytail is skewed off to the side, a little bit of glitter dust on his freckled cheeks, grin making his eyes scrunch up. Kei reaches out to tug on his ponytail and keeps a straight face while Yamaguchi protests. 'Fine, fine, leave the hair alone.'

Vertigo is an apocalypse hotspot. One would think that Kei would've learned to avoid it by now, in that case. One would think that Kei wouldn't have learned, instead, to chase after those apocalypses. That Kei wouldn't have learned to chase after the universe instead of letting the universe chase after him— but Kei, once he understands a concept, applies it thoroughly. This extends to the fact that Hinata shouldn't be allowed to consume refined sugars and that no one in the world is fit to drink Bokuto's version of Jägerbombs, and the fact that some things can only be studied by writing them down. This extends, also, to the fact that _happy_ isn't a place; _happy_ is a way of being. That if life stopped personally offending him one day, it just wouldn't be the same.

Kuroo doesn't dance as if he's just waiting to get back to Kei, because Kuroo loves his friends as much as Kei loves his own. Kei isn't sitting on the barstool as if he's just waiting for Kuroo to get back to him, because everything he could want for the moment is in the same room and breathing, dancing, spinning, glowing.

_Listen up now._

But when Kuroo _does_ come over, half-sauntering, half-stumbling, Kei looks to his heart's content at the lines of his body and the way he takes his steps. Kuroo almost doesn't see him at first, running a hand through his wild hair and shaking off the sweat, but then he looks up and grins at Kei, winks. Kei feels his heart catch on one of his ribs and puts his tequila sunrise away, and waits for Kuroo to reach.

'Come here,' Kuroo says breathlessly once he's next to Kei, leaning against the counter and pulling Kei towards him. 'Hey.'

His eyes are sharp and bright. He's sweaty, damp wherever Kei touches him, his thin shirt sticking to his body. Kei goes easily and presses his hands to Kuroo's chest, where his thin shirt is sticking to his body. Kuroo is breathless, all danced out, and Kei has never been more in love. Kei has never been more in love.

'Hey,' he says, smiles. 'You're good?'

Under his palm, Kuroo's heart is beating so fast that Kei fears for him. A drop of sweat rolls down his neck, and he grins at Kei, all teeth and daze.

'I'm all right,' he says. 'I'm all right, sugar.'

 

●●●

 

'It's beautiful,' Akaashi says, finally.

Koutarou swallows past the lump in his throat and looks up from it, grins even though he can't actually see Akaashi too clearly right now. There's one tear clinging to his lashes and it's annoying as _shit,_ but Koutarou doesn't even bother with it. There's no point; there'll be more in a few minutes anyway.

'You think?' Koutarou says, and Akaashi smiles, reaches to pull the book towards him again. 'Fuck, and to think I started with that dumbass Leyendecker photoshoot. _God._ '

Akaashi's gone back to not saying anything; he's turning the heavy, glossy pages carefully, one by one, making sure his fingertips are pressed against the edges and not the paper itself. If Koutarou didn't know better, he'd call Akaashi's gaze reverent, but Koutarou knows better. Akaashi's gaze is emotional in a far more human way, something that Koutarou relishes every time he manages to make it appear on the face he loves so well.

'It's beautiful,' he says again, and Koutarou grins again. It _is_ beautiful. He's fucking outdone himself and he couldn't have picked a better project to do it on.

It's a hard-bound book, finally. Just photographs and photographs (and a disc with footage, too) all in black and white, starting from the first one behind the scenes of the photoshoot that he had to blackmail Tsukki into sitting through. It feels like another lifetime, the start of it all; Kuroo's hand where Tsukki had fixed his hair, a look on his face that still gives Koutarou goosebumps.

It starts there and it just keeps fucking going. Kuroo's damn café _,_ and Vertigo, and libraries and restaurants and the tangle of fairy lights in Sawamura's living room, Sugawara's creepy little plants. Videos full of lens flares of Kuroo and Himuro and their guitars on a dusty, sunny afternoon. Ennoshita turning his own camera towards Bokuto and laughing, saying _cameraception_ in a heavy accent. Sugawara and Sawamura dancing on Kuroo's birthday, Nishinoya and Saeko posing behind the scenes at the first photoshoot, piercings and peace signs. Akaashi, Akaashi, Akaashi.

It keeps going. There's Oikawa stealing the camera and constantly turning it towards himself to wink and smile, and then turning it back to all the fucking numbnuts that he pretends not to love. Closing up on an annoyed Iwaizumi, asking Asahi what he thinks about Crocs while he battles marketing case studies.

It keeps going, the way Akaashi keeps turning the pages as if he's living everything all over again in black and white with ten summery filters, the snowflakes of winter and the leaves of fall. And throughout there is that thinnest, strongest common thread— throughout the book, somewhere, whether it's a movement in the corner of the frame that Koutarou only noticed while transferring the pictures or just his voice in the background in one of Kise's dance practices, or a silhouette in the distance, or drunk selfies taken on the way back from Vertigo—

It's Kuroo, and Kuroo, and Kuroo. Walking and working and waiting for buses, kneading dough and doing math on a whiteboard and bending at the knee to get to Yachi's level. Tuning a guitar and peeling sticky notes, stretching in the sun and changing the sheets, and looking and looking and fucking _looking_ at Tsukki as if he didn't even know that there could ever exist something of which he can't get his fill.

It's a world of young people honestly trying their best, but one of the poles of that world is one young boy honestly trying his best. And at the very, very end of the videos on the disc that's nestled into the centrefold is the other pole of that world— Tsukki in the doorway of _Le Petit Everything,_ looking stricken at the sound of Kuroo singing.

It keeps going.

Koutarou waits with the sleeve of the book in his hands, and watches as Akaashi turns the black and white pages, observing every detail but not with the detachment that he normally affords to Koutarou's projects in order to be the best critic of them. No, Akaashi isn't objective today; sometimes, Koutarou touches Akaashi, and Akaashi isn't objective.

Sometimes, like right now, Koutarou reaches out and pulls Akaashi in, and kisses him; and Akaashi isn't objective.

He closes the book carefully when Koutarou presses his lips to his jaw, and turns to kiss him fully, Koutarou's eyes slipping closed as Akaashi's fingers curl in his hair, light and gentle. His hands trail down to Akaashi's sharp hipbones, tugging him closer, pressing into his skin like Koutarou can't get enough (and well, Koutarou never said he _can_ ).

'It's beautiful,' Akaashi says, a third time, and if his lips tremble and catch against Koutarou's, well; no one needs to know. 'Koutarou, you impossible thing.'

 

●●●

 

Kei makes Kuroo sing to him a lot. He really wishes he had a way of framing that sentence that didn't make it sound like something out a romantic comedy, but Kei _does_ suspect that his life part-times as a romantic comedy on the weekends, when he doesn't have class. Which only makes him fear for the start of the summer, because he'll _never_ have class which means the part-time will go to full-time and he doesn't think he's emotionally equipped to deal with so much _Kuroo Tetsurou_ in his arms all day long. It was bad enough during the last leg of finals, writing papers and thinking about how many hours he'd have to wait before he could walk into the kitchen and steal cookies and evade Kuroo's indignant backhand fake-outs.

But, well. Acceptance is probably the theme of the summer. Acceptance that he's probably barely scraped a ninety on that last final he took because he just couldn't be bothered; acceptance that _Yachi,_ of all people, has footage of him spilling an Oreo shake all over himself; acceptance that he might possibly be a little whipped and might (less) possibly be getting on Kuroo's nerves with all the song requests.

He's never requested the song Kuroo was singing _that_ evening _,_ because he thinks that's the way it should be. But he asks for everything else that he can think of, songs that he loves, songs that Kuroo loves, songs that Kuroo _hates_ and mumbles his way through the lyrics of. Everything on the mixes he makes for their long drives, that one song that was playing when they got caught in an April shower and parked the Cherry Red Prius off to the side to kiss in the backseat. (Well, Kei supposes that's another thing to accept too, the...well, the kissing, but he hasn't really faced a lot of academic struggle in accepting that. Theoretically speaking.)

Life part-times as a romantic comedy; in all this time, Kuroo's never walked him home from class. It's only fitting that he gets the intelligent idea to do so on the last day that the library's open for the summer, and Kei's walking out with a stack of books because he didn't have the foresight to go in with a bag even though he _knew_ he'd panic at the thought of not being able to come and would end up picking out a dozen textbooks to read over the holidays (and annoy Akiteru with). It's definitely serendipitous, because Kei isn't the kind of— all right. Kei isn't the kind of boyfriend ( _yeesh_ ) who holds a lot of sympathy for his boyfriend, no matter how handsome said boyfriend looks, sitting on the bottom step of the faculty building and scrolling through his phone, smiling and jumping up when he spots Kei. No, Kei doesn't hold a lot of sympathy for Kuroo on most days (and it works both ways, so he isn't sorry) and hence has no qualms about dumping all his books into Kuroo's arms.

'Thanks,' he says, prancing ahead and then turning around to catch Kuroo's eyeroll. 'Yachi told me Yaku quit?'

'Yaku quits thrice a day,' Kuroo answers, arranging the books so that they don't fall over. 'I told him we need to put granitas back on the menu and he said he doesn't want Nishinoya to ever enter the premises again, and I said that's bullshit so he quit.'

'What do granitas have to do with Nishinoya?'

'Don't ask _me._ Yaku's always doing his own thing.'

Kei snorts and turns away again, looks out at all the green trees, the sun low in the sky now, gold through the foliage. He looks at it and considers, and then turns around again, putting his hands in his pockets. He's good at walking backwards, anyway.

The sun makes Kuroo's eyes appear lighter than they are, and the smile on his lips makes them appear as bright as they should be. His hair will never stop being a mess, which is something Kei is only realising the gravity of now that he has to be explicitly associated with Kuroo. (There are really _so many things_ that Kei didn't consider before kissing Kuroo that first time. Like all the disgusting pet names and couple selfies with _cat_ filters, and also Bokuto's semi-permanent, hovering presence, like some kind of sentient vacuum cleaner waiting for them to kiss in front of him.)

Kei kind of doesn't mind anyway. At least, not until his heel catches on a loose stone because he can't _watch the road_ like a normal human being, and he starts to fall backwards. He does spot the panic in Kuroo's eyes, but more importantly, he remembers that there are _books_ in Kuroo's hands that would fall onto the _road_ if Kuroo rushed to catch him.

There is only one option. Kei has to take the fall, for education.

'DON'T,' he says, in what he thinks was a calm enough voice to reassure Kuroo even as he very much feels himself go down backwards, 'DON'T TRY, IT'S FINE.'

He actually does manage to soften the fall somehow, but the look of utter incredulity on Kuroo's face definitely doesn't soften. There is a certain degree of doneness in his expression, as if he, too, is thinking about all of the things he didn't consider before kissing Kei back. Kei quietly and spitefully lists it as revenge for the hair.

'Can you just put your arm through mine and walk like normal couples do?' Kuroo asks wearily.

Kei considers. On the one hand, he wouldn't have to walk backwards. On the other hand, there's Kuroo's hair.

All things considered, then.

(Kuroo shifts to kiss him when Kei locks their arms together. Kei thinks whoever is maintaining the karmic account book of the universe should remember that every time they do this, he very politely refrains from remarking how Kuroo has to reach _up_ to do it. However, it’s also better that they don’t; his restraint could be discredited on account of the fact that most of the time when Kuroo is kissing him, Kei is too busy kissing back to do any other thing in the world.)

 

●●●

 

Kuroo's sitting on the bed with his back to the wall, knees drawn up to his chest as he raises an eyebrow at Koutarou, smiling, expectant. His hand is already palm-up on the mattress, even though Koutarou's still clutching the book a little too tight. (He's already shown it to Tsukki, and while Tsukki hadn't said anything at first apart from _well, that's enough blackmail material on me for a century, we can cease all attempts at interaction, I no longer know you,_ he'd doubled back into Koutarou's apartment seconds after leaving it. Thrown his arms around Koutarou's neck like a child and whispered fiercely, _I hope you get an A._ )

He's already shown it to Tsukki, so his hands probably shouldn't shake as much as they do when he finally hands it over to Kuroo. But they do, and Kuroo doesn't say anything about it, just takes the black sleeve from Koutarou and clicks open the silver button. Pulls the book out carefully, and smiles down at the plain white cover.

But he doesn't open it, so Koutarou takes a breath and waits.

'What's it called?' Kuroo asks, and Koutarou exhales.

'It's called,' he says, then takes another breath and lets it out. 'It's called _my best friend falls in love._ '

 

●●●

 

There are two types of people in this world:

1) People who should really not drink Bokuto Koutarou's version of Jägerbombs.

2) Tsukishima Kei.

'Told you I could do it,' Kuroo says, utterly deadpan expression on his face and no enthusiasm in his voice, which is honestly a level of sarcastic perfection Kei hopes to achieve one day, given the strenuous nature of what Kuroo is currently doing.

Akaashi, for his part, continues reading whatever is on his phone screen with a level of _fucks given about this_ at a steady zero, if not in the minus. He doesn't really seem to mind that Kuroo is lifting him off the ground with only one arm around his waist (as challenged and promised) and doesn't look up even when Kuroo clumsily sets him down on the hood of the car.

'All right, all right,' Bokuto concedes sulkily. 'You win. But you know what?'

Kei, who had been laughing as discreetly as possible at Akaashi's lack of interest and amusement, immediately stops laughing, because among all the various things he's learned this academic year, perhaps the most sensitive and crucial one is to recognise the different tones of Bokuto's voice. That _you know what_ sounded exactly like something very dangerous is about to come hurtling in Kei's direction at the speed of a hundred and fifty kilometres per hour, and it is _not_ Count Dracula; Kei _wishes_ it was.

No, the moment Bokuto says _but you know what,_ Kei's hackles are as high up as hackles can go, and his laugh dies in his throat as Bokuto turns to him in horrifying slow motion.

'NO,' Kei says. 'BOKUTO.'

'Tsukki—'

'STOP. ABSOLUTELY NOT.'

Bokuto is seldom the kind to actually listen to instructions, no matter how earnest those instructions are. This Kei knows, so while he is definitely outraged at how easily Bokuto throws him a sturdy shoulder with an even sturdier arm, he isn't quite surprised. He doesn't try to struggle, stares morosely at the backs of Bokuto's flipflops instead and the wheels of the Cherry Red Prius. He should've gone home when he had the chance, told Akiteru to make the shortcake a week earlier than planned just so that he _wouldn't_ have to accompany Bokuto and Akaashi to the airport. Kei doesn't know why he even _tries_ to be nice to people, when all they do is throw him over their shoulders in firemen's carries to win whatever inane contest they've set up with their best friend on that particular day. Kei would take Kenma's cat over this any day, he _would._

When Bokuto sets him down, Kei glares at him to convey just that, and is met with the kind of obnoxious grin that makes him very, very glad that Bokuto's going to be out of his sight for three weeks straight. Kei's _human._

'When's the check-in again?' Kuroo asks, in that way he has of point-blank refusing to acknowledge another's victory. 'In an hour, right? We should get going, the traffic—'

'Yeah, yeah,' Bokuto crows. 'You don't want to admit I could pick up your stick insect—'

'I am not,' Kei says, 'a _stick insect._ You—'

'All three of you,' Akaashi says, without looking up from his phone, and Kei's learned to recognise the tones of his voice too, even though they vary so subtly that he has to strain to hear. This one is _I will not hesitate to get into this car and run it over you, so it's a good idea not to test me._ 'Good. Let's get moving.'

'Shotgun,' Bokuto calls immediately, and Kei rolls his eyes. He doesn't mind taking the backseat; he just minds the concept of Bokuto and Kuroo bickering all the way to the airport about what is appropriate _we're leaving to go parasailing over the summer holidays_ music, which is going to be rich coming from Kuroo who's actually planning to renovate the café instead of traveling, and even richer coming from Koutarou whose private taste in music, as Akaashi told Kei last week over the dinner they were cooking, apparently extends to an error page on a Russian website.

Kei lets him have shotgun anyway. He's going home with Yamaguchi and the boys next week, and he's made Kuroo promise not to pick up any work for the week they have together. It should be fine.

It should be fine, but even so, Kuroo lingers outside as Bokuto triumphantly throws himself into the passenger seat and slams the door, as Akaashi slips in with a knowing glance at them. It's ridiculous, really; it's a forty-minute drive and then they'll be driving back alone, and Kuroo will probably take thirty detours to keep the car going, and the forecast said it could rain today. Even then, Kei lingers outside along with Kuroo, just to look at him for a second in solitude.

'I took the raspberries out of the freezer,' Kuroo says, stepping towards Kei. 'Before we left. They'll be good by the time we're back.'

'Knowing you we'll end up a town over, and they'll be swimming in the box by then.'

'Have some faith, Tsukki.'

'I do,' Kei says, and he smiles at Kuroo. He kind of doesn't have faith, actually; Kuroo's smart and punctual and efficient but he's also slightly smitten with Kei, and that red car of theirs gives surprisingly good mileage. Kei doesn't exactly have faith, but he still does, in a way; wherever they go, that's where they'll be, and if alternatives close like doors behind them, that just means that they can only keep going forward. 'I do.'

There's the hum of one of the car windows going down, and then Bokuto's leaning out of it, glaring at them.

'If you're quite done, Keiji and I have a flight to catch,' he says, too annoyed to be taken seriously. 'You can cry over economics later.'

Kuroo snaps out of it, and grins at Bokuto, winks teasingly. 'On my way, hotshot.'

He throws one last smile at Kei over his shoulder as he makes his way over to the driver's door, and Kei stands there with his hands in his pockets and looks at the sun shining bright on the red of the car. Kei thinks about the shortcake he'll have when he goes home to Akiteru, and how many frantic study emails he's going to get from Kunimi over the summer, and the new poster of Gecko Tooru that Yachi designed for Oikawa's door.

Kei thinks about the raspberries, lying on the counter when he comes home to _Le Petit Universe._

Kei thinks about Bokuto's Jägerbombs. Then Kei thinks about the world, and how many types of people there are in it.

'Get in,' Kuroo sings from the driver's seat, and Kei calls back an _in a minute, Vercetti._

Upon further consideration, Kei thinks that there are more than just two types of people in this world. There are, in fact, a great many types of people in the world. Kenma who doesn't talk, Hinata who does nothing but talk, whoever edits Iwaizumi's reviews. Oikawa, and Sawamura, and Sugawara, and Asahi. Shimizu, and Michimiya, and Saeko. Every friend whose name he can't bring to mind immediately because once, he used to struggle to see them as friends, and now he struggles with how he can't explain how much every single one of them has brought to him. Can't do it on command, like a list, because there aren't just two types of people in the world.

There are many types of people in this world.

Kei's just glad he found the best.

**Author's Note:**

> [Jaywalking - Eye Candy](https://youtu.be/wCMdX13kLUc?t=5s)
> 
> (( If you're wondering _holy shit, it's over, what now,_ I'm personally going to take a shower after this and remember that this is where I stop telling their stories, not where their stories stop. I'll tell other stories! Just not these. 
> 
> [GET UR FAQ + EXTRAS HERE.](http://sturlsons.tumblr.com/post/155684310099/jaywalkers-faq-extras)))
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/soldierpoetking) and [Tumblr](http://sturlsons.tumblr.com). 
> 
> I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO WRITE A UNI AU. MOTHER TOLD ME IT WOULD BE LIKE THIS
> 
>  **[Teddy:](http://soodyo.tumblr.com)** MY “THEY KNOW NOTHING” PARTNER IN CRIME. Thank you for being the wall off which I bounced all my jaywalkers ideas, right from the very first _so get this, a Haikyuu!! university AU and Oikawa has a chameleon_ to the summer evening that Kuroo proposes to Tsukki. Thank you for all the amazing art, the pieces that are up there for everyone to see and also the pieces that are only in my files or on my wall. Thank you for loving this story and its characters so much (thank you for saving Suga’s ribs). THANK YOU for two full years of crying about Kuroo and Tsukki together, I don’t know who else I would’ve taken it to. It’s been a fantastic ride, it's been real; may you keep finding in the world more stories to love and make art for. 
> 
> **[Ksenya:](http://fyolette.tumblr.com)** MY FOREVER BETA, MY FOREVER 23 DEGREE INTELLECTUAL OTHER HALF. The one who owns all the wire frames of my stories and the one who sits patiently while I make something good out of those wire frames, SHE HAS SEEN MY WRITING OF THIS SERIES FROM ITS BEST (“Yeah, it’s perfect. Don’t change a thing.”) TO ITS WORST (“Teesta…what…no, let me call you up in five minutes.”) and I owe every. Single. Bit. Of. Progress. That not only jaywalkers, but my writing this year in its entirety has seen, to Ksenya. Thank you for always pushing me to do my best— but without killing myself!— and helping when I can’t. Thank you for taking the bits and pieces and shiny buttons I have in my head and making them into something coherent, something smart, something beautiful. Thank you, project engineer. Let’s do it again. And again. And again.
> 
> I want to thank all of you. Every goddamn single one of you who has given jaywalkers a chance and loved it so, so, so very much that I cannot believe it to this day. Everyone who kept up with all the updates, everyone who left comments and kudos and tweeted me or messaged me and drew art and made playlists and added a thread to the tapestry of this universe— more than that, everyone who read these stories and smiled and laughed and cried: thank you for following me into this world with its nameless café and its hip nightclub and its mess of student apartments, thank you for worrying about Tsukki’s headphones and Kuroo’s hair, thank you for loving Bokuto and Akaashi and Suga and Daichi and Yamaguchi and Yachi and every single silly character I wrote into being for this universe. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Gecko Tooru watches over all of you. 
> 
> One of my readers asked me how to find and see and believe in the good in the world. 
> 
> Here is my answer (and do me a favour, my fucking precious evening stars, all of you): be it. 
> 
> Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly NOW. Love mercy NOW. Walk humbly NOW. You are not obligated to complete the work but neither are you free to abandon it.
> 
> I love you, I love you, I love you. Go out into this world and love. GO OUT, INTO THIS WORLD, AND LOVE.


End file.
